Of Capes And Swords
by Kitade Death
Summary: AU XS. What if Xanxus and Squalo had met in Firenze during a total war to obtain the honorific title of duke? At first they're supposed to be enemies fighting for different sides, but the path their heart took say the contrary. Includes others characters from the manga and the anime. Rating may changes later.


Voo...i.

I have to officially announce that IT WILL BE A SEQUEL to I Need A Child - not really a sequel in fact, more the continuation of the story as I forgot to class it "COMPLETE". I'm not sure yet when I'll start to publish it, and there will possibly be no fixed date for each uploading... Though I'll certainly write about ten chapters more.

For the fan of that story please thank mao24 who hadn't lost hope on my case... But also everyone of you who had supported me for each one of my stories... THANK YOU GUYS ^^!

So back to this fic: it's kind of a total different atmosphere - the title speaks for itself, capes and swords. The story is taking place in the past, m (for those who had read My Bloody Valentine, I've already said that I love that epoch).

Here Xanxus and Squalo don't know each others, and in the beginning they're fighting against each others. But as it's developping, they'll get closer, and closer and closer until...

Well, I let you guess!

* * *

Of Capes And Swords.

Firenze, the graceful, idyllic town in the middle of Toscana. How beautiful is she with her ancient monuments, her matchless gardens, palaces, churches, cathedrals. The wonderful view you're getting from the Piazzale Michelangelo is giving you a slight idea of how magnificent is that city: the beauty herself, the limpid water of the Arno as her mane. How stunning, how amazing may seem that piece of art sculpted in a mild plain under a peaceful sky, the pearl of the Renaissance, a jewel thrown in the center of Italia.

But today, what I want to show you is a more precise spot a bit more buried into those mazes of old streets – though you can clearly see it from afar, that huge, imposing building: the Palazzo Vecchio. The construction sure is impressive with his tall and austere tower, visible miles away, overhanging the all place (yet it can't eclipse the hugeness of the Brunelleschi's dome, the adequately called Duomo).

Closely, the former castle looks more frightening with its crenellated ramparts, the grey, sad walls that have as only proves of an inside form of life numerous windows, only glowing dimly when night has fallen on Firenze. Otherwise the Palazzo really seems to be some sort of prison.

This is a digression.

Built on the main place of the town, the Piazza della Signoria, the Palazzo Vecchio had been since long witness of many public meetings, popular fests, sumptuous parties, revolutions, and even tortures. Yes, the old castle sure had seen some. But that day, it wasn't. On the contrary, the place was quiet calm and serene. The sun had just passed the zenith and summer was tainting skies with heavy bleu, almost no cloud cooling down the hellish heat on the passer-by's forehead.

People were walking with laziness on the cobblestone streets, agonizingly looking for some shady place to sit in. Some, more brave, were just sitting at the feet of monumental statues, eyeing indolently at David, Hercule, Cacus or Marzocco, or – the fortunate ones! – Neptune with his eternal floods of water. A real, true summer afternoon. And nothing would have disturbed that peaceful day of tranquility, if it wasn't for that unexpected crash of clogs on the stone, followed by horses' neighing and heavy breaths.

A cavalcade made their entrance at the square, in front of the bewildered stares of the strollers. There were maybe six or seven on the head of the small troop, followed by a dozen of other riders. In spite of the heat, they were all wearing dark capes and masks, but only at their behavior and impetuous entrance, one could guess they still were young. One particularly seemed more reckless than the others: the man (he was indeed a man) was tall, his skin – or the scarce part of his skin that could been seen, not hidden behind layers of clothes and disguise, part which only consisted in his neck and throat – his skin was tanned, his hair black and spiky. Red feathers were fluttering on his neck. Without getting down from his horse, he headed toward the Palazzo's entry.

Forewarned by their strange appearance, three guards blocked the passage.

'Slow down, you there!' Yelled one of them. 'How dare you, with such disrespect, treading on…' But he couldn't say more as the raven haired man aimed a gun at him. Right away the guards took a defensive position, pulling their own rifles. Another squad was already running to help the first guards. To start with, they were twenty against six, and right after sixty against twenty.

'By the name of the Duke, name yourself, churls!' The squad's officer shouted toward the said churls' leader.

The raven said nothing; instead his companions all pulled their weapons out, ready for an imminent clash. The officer didn't want to lose his time with such fools. 'Fire!' He ordered. A salvo exploded.

At the other side, let's not say of the city, yet far enough to be completely oblivious of what was happening at the Piazza, another man, that one with silvery hair – and if that wasn't odd enough for a young man (the man was young, his handsome features were screaming with youth), the mane was pooling down to his waist – so that man was fuming.

Saying that the silver head was good-looking was a euphemism. Even if his face was expressing a high degree of anger, all that anger couldn't hide the marvelous features of his, nor deteriorate the grey, ferric gaze of his eyes.

Another man was with him, that one was blonde and had chocolate eyes. His gorgeousness could easily be compared with his friend's.

'They had been looking for this! Who told them to fuck with me?' The silverette shouted at his companion, a deep scowl on his face.

'Ah! Ah! But they are rookies, Squalo. You can't expect rookies to instantly know what to do in those kinds of situation!' The blonde beamed.

It didn't seem to convince the first man, the one called Squalo. 'Voi! Stop laughing stupidly, Cavallone! Rookies or not, those little shitheads were annoying me. They deserved what they got.'

Squalo went down the stone-made steps of a church, the blonde on his heels.

In order to let the reader understand why the silver beauty was that mad, they have to know first that the Squalo man was one of Florence's feared marescialli. There was one for each district. Their job wasn't really complicated, though not easy; they were responsible for their area's security, all under the direct aegis of the Duke. In short, marescialli were like some kind of city policemen. The only difference was that they weren't as bound by the laws as our peacekeepers; with the result that some would more associated them to Mafia than police. But for them, it was the same things.

So Squalo was a _maresciallo_, the one in charge of the Piazza della Signoria and its surroundings (in a radius of about two kilometers). And the reason to the _maresciallo_'s irritation was, like almost every day God gave him, his subordinates' incompetence.

The Cavallone man was trying to calm him down. 'Okay. If you say so. But you have to admit you're quite exigent. You know you can't get…'

He paused. A guard he recognized as being one of the Old Palace's was running toward them as if Hell's hounds had been released behind him. That sight hadn't passed unnoticed to the silverette, who was frowning even deeper, ready for some bad news.

'Signore Squalo…' The man breathed heavily when he reached them. 'The plazza… Is under attack!'

He almost fainted. The silver haired man couldn't care less about the man. At once he ran and nearly tore his horse's bridle from a footman then, getting on as swiftly as someone having all his debt-holders at his butt, he rode hell for leather to the commotion.

In front of the plazza, the confrontation turned to be more balanced than what was initially expected. The loungers had since long understood the danger of staying between two fires, the place was void of people apart from the town's soldiers who were keeping on rushing into the clash. The horsemen had left their horses and were fighting in the scramble. Bravely giving gunshot for gunshot, gash for gash, the masked men were quite easily breaking through the squad.

Their leader mostly didn't have any mercy for the poor souls that were falling under his bullets. The raven, without sweating a drop, was the one moving the most freely in the shambles. One soldier after another, they were all succumbing to his deadly attacks. However he didn't give the impression to be in the slightest saddened by the trail of dead bodies he was leaving in his stride.

On the other hand his companions weren't doing half-bad. In the leading group, a young man – almost a child and yet as vivid as his comrades – with red hair burning under the summer sun, was making his way in the confuse crowd using his own pistol, but the contrary to his leader, the sight of blood pouring from the corpses was slightly disturbing him. Another blonde youth (maybe a soldier himself, as he was moving almost the same way as their foes) was gunning his way in. The oddness about him was the fact he was using a huge sporting-gun, evidently not made for a frontal attack, but that wasn't troubling his move in the least.

The next one was black haired. He had a rather different fighting style than the others, as he was fighting bare fists, with fast and precise movements – he was for sure the swiftest among them – just like in martial arts (how strange to see that sort of happening in the middle of Italia!). The two last ones were like twins: everything in their moves, their weapons (tridents shaped with the same fashion, apart from the fact that the second one was much more like a mere spear), their looks and even their haircut was exactly the same, but what was differentiating them was only their height. The first one was tall, but his counterpart was much smaller and leaner than him; the young man was actually a young girl.

And that eccentric group, as odd as they might look like and as different as the members were, that strange group was easily beating their enemies back; and so the latter had to add new soldiers to their decimated ranks in order to fill the holes done in their formations. At that stage of the skirmish, no one even gave a little thought about the cadaver under their feet and their ghosts upon their heads. Neither faction was planning on surrendering, or maybe only on their wounded, dying, dead bodies. And dead bodies there were, spreading all over the once peaceful Piazza, the thick blood staining the tarmac.

Too taken by the battle, no one noticed the silver haired man arriving on his auburn Holstein. Without a further ado he unsheathed his own weapons – a beautifully shaped spada – and threw himself neck and crop in the scuffle.

Nevertheless, once the silver haired man took part in it, the battle suddenly went to a turning point. The soldiers, as if they were finally reassured by the long-awaited arrival of their captain, regained some of their courage. With more fierceness, they started progressing on the battlefield. Only one minute after the silverette's coming the two splinter groups somehow found an appearance of equilibrium.

Squalo didn't have the same uncertain hesitation as his underlings. Shipshape and pitiless, just like the shark hunting in his privileged waters. The silver haired swordsman was making headway in the absolute hubbub, serene and majestic, stabbing deadly one of the formerly unscathed riders, pulling a cape to him and piercing the hidden flesh, knocking off an unguarded one and then kicking at one's ass, non regarding whether they were enemy or ally (in the first case it was for them to make him more place to move, in the second to make _them_ move further).

'Vooi! Keep moving forward, scum!' Squalo was shouting to his subordinates. 'I swear if you're not, _I_'m the one who's going to kill you! Stop fucking shaking like fucking girls! Voi, trash! Can't correctly use a fucking sword? Want me to cut your damn legs to show you how?'

At the end of the day, maybe it wasn't the joy of seeing his general fighting at their side that was making the soldiers fight better. It was only the fear said general was inspiring in them, and the dread, not of being killed by the enemy, but indeed of having to show an utter defeat to the man – the sanction would be by far more hurtful than dying on the front line.

Without knowing, the dreadful shark was heading slowly to where the raven was fighting. The swordsman only noticed his presence when said man unintentionally bumped at his back. Both jumped then quickly turned back to glare at the intruder.

The silverette couldn't give an exact reason, but the raven was stirring some odd feeling in him. It wasn't fear. Squalo didn't fear of anything – on the contrary people feared him. No, that wasn't fear, just something else…

But he didn't have to ponder about, mostly because the raven didn't; only keeping on shooting him. Two bullets aiming exactly at his right eye and cheek. Fortunately he dodged them in time, barely. Squalo was happy: he wouldn't have to finish his life disfigured or with an eyepatch. Hardly the first assault was avoided than another came, then another, and one more. Bullets were flying everywhere, some flinging in some unknown characters, and some rebounding on the ground.

The swordsman was dumbfounded. Really, what was the point of being the most powerful swordsman in the goddamn kingdom if he couldn't even approach his opponent? Since they started fighting, he lost most of his time avoiding bullets than doing anything else! That and preventing to have the other idiots in his legs. The swordsman paused a bit, remote enough for the raven to stop his gunfire, eyeing the swordsman with ruby, disdainful orbs, which seemed to tell 'That's all?' Squalo was upset.

'Che. We're going nowhere like this.' He hissed to himself and, looking aside. 'Can I do it … Or whatever…'

With a new scheme in mind, he resumed his assaulting. Still six meters to go. First bullet. It was easy to dodge; the silverette skirted around a falling soldier, for one second shying away from the raven's glare. Three meters and a second bullet. For that one, Squalo used one of the already wounded body of someone next to him as a shield. Third bullet. And one meter. Jostled by some fighters at his back, the raven lost momentarily his target; the bullet passed one inch from Squalo's face. He could almost feel the burning of it on his skin.

One more step and they were practically face to face. But, at the fourth bullet, the swordsman suddenly knelt flexibly right in front of the raven, his blade ready for cutting deeply in his flank. The latter hadn't expected it and the bullet went in a diametrically opposite point than the initial target. He barely forestalled the move and, with a second gun in the other hand, blocked the attack. The tanned man wanted to smirk at the unsuccessful strike; but he couldn't as the still kneeling man threw dust in his eyes, allowing himself to free from the awkward position.

This time was Squalo's turn to smirk at the irate man.

'Voi. Bothered by only some shit in your eyes? That's lame.'

Back from his first astonishment, the raven was angry. And angry like hell. He fired with both gun at the grinning shark. That time the silver haired swordsman didn't try to draw closer. On the contrary it seemed that he was fleeing at the other side of the battlefield. And the raven was pursuing him from behind.

Some time after, they were alone in a more remote place, both armed with their respective weapons, each one waiting for the other to make the first move. From their spot, one could see the Arno River gleaming under the orange sun – they were actually near the Ponte Vecchio. A beautiful sight without a doubt, apart from the death dual, promise of blood pouring in the pure water. The two fighters were both too engrossed into their own little world at that time, too much to admire anything else but the man in front of each other.

Squalo was grinning wickedly and panting faintly from his race, so was the raven, at some distance from him.

'Piece of trash.' The raven stated.

'Jerk.' Squalo replied. 'Enough running?'

'Humph. That's my line, scum. I hope you've prayed your Creator, 'cause you're going to see him very soon.' The masked man heaved his guns, aimed at the man in front of him.

'_That_ is my line.' Squalo acknowledged. His heart was beating fast, some kind of excitement in battle he hadn't have since ages was pooling in his veins. The swordsman wouldn't help but being intrigued in his adversary. He took his pose. 'Voi. Superbi Squalo. This is my name, remember it.'

The tanned man laughed roughly.

'I don't need to remember such a shit of a name.' A dark glow in his red eyes. He took off his mask. His face was in fact striking, though dark scars were marring it. And his eyes, God! They were red, bloody, mad! For Squalo, stunning. 'I'm Xanxus. At least know the name and the face of the man who's gonna put an end to your miserable life.'

One step closer. Squalo had been the one to move. With a hellish speed, he was close enough to wound Xanxus, and yet the latter had been the promptest. He backed a little, enough to aim again at the silverette. The shot went off. And the bullet met the solid blade of the sword. A ferric sound of metal against metal and a small column of flames.

The tension was at its highest point. Both men were looking intently at their opponent. Not a single time the move of the other's body, every gasp of breath he was taking and exhaling, every single step he was making closer or further, not the slightest detail could pass unnoticed when watched by those killing experts' eyes.

Another wave of sword, another gunshot, and then again that ferric sound. Squalo could swear that some of the bullets were making holes in his hair, and that the clothes he was wearing would very soon fall to pieces.

He didn't give a damn.

For him, it was only rising ecstasy, building excitement, climbing tension and adrenaline mixing in his blood… Then dilated eyes and pant going heavier and heavier with each second, beads of sweat dripping on his temples. The thrill of battle was taking the best of him. The swordsman didn't quite remember who he was fighting with. All he still could understand was approximately what a hunter, a beast, a shark could understand after days, weeks, months of starving: right in front of him, there was bloody meat, some damn, rare, appetizing meat; and the highest class of it, some he hadn't get in a while.

Well, it wasn't as if the swordsman was actually going to eat the man. However, he had to admit that Xanxus – that was his name? – was a goddamn fighter. Nothing like the low-life scums he always got landed with, or anyone before him… His fine presence, the easiness in his movements, and even earlier, when he was inches from filling his brains with shot. No, Squalo wasn't one of those mentally disturbed ones, constantly looking for any sorts of excitements. But that thrill, those goosebumps the silverette got since he saw those angry red orbs, had never left him.

Gradually, their speed raised as a result that it would have been totally impossible to interfere in their Danse macabre. However, the one who was trying to catch the other's pace was in actual fact Squalo. The swordsman was indeed a great swordsman, his technique, every assault was perfect, even the greatest fencer ever wouldn't have found a fault with anything.

But the truth was that Xanxus' level was utterly different. Right from the start, that fight and the many others he had on the place had been for him a kind play, an entertainment. That man in front of him only, that idiot that thought he could play the same game as his, that one was a poor fool. And that fool had annoyed the raven in his amusement more than once, enough for him to let the silver head participate in the fun. Did that man imagine that he was good enough only because he had the opportunity to barely surprise Xanxus on one random occasion?

An opening. The tanned man took advantage of his higher stature. Clashing blade and gun together, he let go of one of his gun and, with the freed hand, Xanxus pulled harshly at the long silvery mane. He almost cursed at the silky sensation of it – Squalo actually cursed at the pain on his scalp.

Tugging hard at the smooth locks, he kicked the silvertte at his flank – like a late revenge for the previous unsuccessful attempt on his own.

Squalo half-bent under the unanticipated soreness. He felt a hard knock on his neck (the gun's grip), blood filling his mouth, and then dropped his sword before falling on the ground. Or rather he would have completely fallen if the tanned man had released his hair.

The _maresciallo_'s head was spinning a bit, a salty/ ferrous taste on his tongue. He looked at Xanxus behind blurry eyes.

'Ah! Trash. You don't look that threatening without your damn loud mouth.' Said man snickered, pulling the silverette's face near his. He stuck the barrel right under the other's chin and pulled the trigger. 'Die, trash…'

_BAM_.

There was smoke everywhere. The bridge was pretty damaged at many points, but the two men were safe and sound. At the other bank of the river, a line of guns were still fuming.

'_Maresciallo_ Byakuran!' A soldier in livery was reporting to an officer. The _maresciallo_ Byakuran had, nearly alike to Squalo, fair, white hair, but it was short. The man was smiling widely in a phony way toward the Ponte. 'We missed the target, but fortunately the _maresciallo_ Superbi Squalo is out of danger.'

'Good job, Mr. Calligaris. Please take your men and intercept the rebel. And take a doctor for Squalo…'

'Signore, _maresciallo_, sir!' Another soldier came. 'The rebel has disappeared! We can't find him anywhere! ...'

'Oh! He had?' Byakuran's smile widened. He stared idly at the bridge. 'Don't worry about this. If there's no cadaver then the body is still running somewhere. We'll catch him sooner or later. He and his companions… Men, see you later!'

He waved a hand and turned tails.

Actually the ruckus didn't last for very long after the two leader's leave. They continue exchanging blades and gunshots, but, at the canon's explosion, the masked men finally withdrew. As if they had never been there, the cavalieri took their mounts and fled away. Behind them were flooding the poor victims' blood – both soldiers' and rebels' – tainting cadavers and awfully wounded men of the militia. The latter side indeed took great damages from the battle, yet at the end they also succeeded in pushing back the insurgents.

No one found the raven.

In accordance with Byakuran's prescription, they called a doctor for Superbi Squalo. The brave man said that the _maresciallo_ hadn't suffer much injures, but he still needed an appropriate treatment. Squalo had been found unconscious on the half-destroyed promontory. His officers took him home and put him in bed, still unconscious. One advantage of living by oneself was that no matter in what condition you're going back home, there would be no whimsical wife shrieking with horror seeing your disabled body, noticing that you've lost one eye, one arm, one leg. Besides Squalo had no parents to bother, no children to be bothered with; his life had always consisted in completing his sword and, on the way, serving Florence's duchy.

During the whole night he was comatose, the silverette went through a terrible bout of fever. It nearly made him delirious, the nurse said. The courageous madam couldn't sleep at all, doing round trip from the bedroom to the kitchen to fetch water and towels to clean the sweating body.

The next morning the swordsman was up from bed. He was incredibly angry and ashamed with his last defeat, whose last proof was the bandage he had on his head.

Defeat? What a meaningless word for the silver head… Until he found _that man_. It had a strange taste, a bitter savor. At first Squalo assumed it was because of some medicines they made him take earlier, or because of the blood still sticking on his tongue… No, that was wrong.

He, Superbi Squalo, he, one of Firenze's marescialli, he, the unbeaten swordsman, he had _lost_.

He had lost to that man, that Xanxus. He had lost to that man's existence, his strength, his madness…

'_Maresciallo_? Are you all right?' A nameless soldier asked him.

The silver haired captain shrugged and beckoned the soldier to go back to his previous occupation.

The swordsman looked in front of him. He hadn't noticed that, unconsciously, his feet brought him to the marescialli's meeting place.

The basilica San Lorenzo.

There weren't many people, that early in the morning (Squalo left his house at barely six). Only few bigots missing for certain Heavenly rest were wandering here and there, or kneeling on wooden footrests, eyes tightly closed and telling feverously their beads. The swordsman passed by without paying them attention.

With a sure foot, he went in a deeper part of the church, where he knew there was a cloister. There he found a staircase and came up. In the back of the room where he arrived was a huge book-case. As if to take some book talking about human sins, the human condition or a philosophic treatise, Squalo started to stare at each one of the books displayed. At last he took one – a thick volume of Guzmán de Alfarache.

Right after a dull click could be heard behind the enormous piece of furniture. The book-case pivoted, showing another entrance behind the wall. A hidden room was stretching in.

A well-chosen committee was already waiting in, standing around an immense, round table. Seeing the tense look on their faces, one could almost say that the distance between the participants had been meant for them not to kill each others.

'You're finally here! God, what happened to you?' A blonde man we recall as being the Cavallone quaked.

'Humph! It serves him right. The idiot is continuously searching for a worthy opponent… Honor to whom honor is due!' A big, well-built redhead laughed noisily. Everything in his behavior was screaming the unintelligent fighter. Squalo didn't even cast him a glance.

'Please, quiet down, Zakuro. Everyone in this room isn't a fanatic of your heavy cackles.' An Asiatic black haired man hissed. Squalo stared at him intently, as if to remember somebody else from his features.

'Hibari, you don't have to be that assertive.' Another blonde next to him laid a calming hand in his shoulder. 'We shouldn't fight with each others. You too, _maresciallo_ Zakro.'

'Giotto, you bastard. I already told you not to call me like that!'

'My, so you didn't have to insult everyone.' A man wearing glasses coughed slightly, staring angrily at the Cavallone. 'By the way does anyone know where the duke is?'

'Err… He said he won't be in Florence before tomorrow …' The blonde stuttered.

'I knew it!' Zakuro roared. 'We're all working to death but Signore isn't even deigning show up at a meeting held for his fucking sake.'

'It's not as if you're actually working, _maresciallo_.' Hibari smirked.

'How infantile.' The bespectacled man whispered. 'And it seems that the duke isn't the only one missing.'

'And what about the others?' Giotto asked.

'Um. Well _Maresciallo_ Adelheid is on a mission in Barcelona, _Maresciallo_ Verde is with the duke, Lal is currently off duty, and _Maresciallo_ Byakuran… isn't coming. That's what he said.' The Cavallone said in a breath.

Giotto averted his eyes. Squalo che-ed. The bespectacled man had a tic and Zakuro burst in laughs.

'Ha ha ha! That man really is the best! Instead of losing his time here, at least he had the wisdom of staying at home. Or maybe was he too tired after saving your sorry ass, shark?'

'Voooi, asshole.' Squalo shouted at Zakuro. 'You truly are in a dire need of having your head off!'

'But that isn't wrong.' The Cavallone acknowledged. 'You truly were in a pinch, yesterday.'

'A pinch, indeed.' The man with glasses nodded.

'Kouyou. I didn't remember asking for your goddamn intervention.' Squalo yelled.

'You're being awfully noisy, for someone who had been thrashed just the day before.' Hibari asserted. 'It makes me want to bite you to death.'

'Hey, the Chinese. Aren't ya in the same position as him? What about your older brother? I heard he had taken part of yesterday's rebellion.'

Hibari glared.

'This has nothing to do with such an herbivore as you.'

'Back to our main concern, what do we know about those rebels?' Koukyou demanded.

'Ask the shark.' Zakuro insolently raised his chin toward the swordsman. 'He had been more than close to one of them.'

'You're digressing.' Giotto frowned at him. 'Dino Cavallone, do you have some information about the rising?'

Cavallone rubbed the back of his head. 'Umm. No. Maybe the duke does… But until…'

'Tomorrow.' Everyone stated.

'… We won't know more about it.'

A sigh echoed in the cloistered room, followed by a minute silent.

Giotto had been the first to raise the voice. 'There's something I don't understand about their tactics. They gave up their position almost right after engaging the battle… What would be the reason to that?'

'A diversion, I suppose.' Koukyou seemed pensive. 'After all they didn't even enter in the palazzo.'

Zakuro smiled wickedly at him. 'And for what reason, a diversion? Ah! Ah! There had been no kind of alert all other the town… At least not in my area! They know not to fuck with me and my men. Hey, shark, you can't say the same, can you?'

'_Trippe del Papa_!' Squalo sweared, unsheathing his sword and one foot on the table. That time he was actually angry. 'You're fucking dead, you fucking bastard! Come here!'

'Stop fighting.' Giotto frowned.

'Kids.' Kouyou added.

'Don't argue here, please!' Dino waved his hands franticly. 'If you want that much to fight then just get out! This is a bloody church!'

The quarrel kept on for some time. At the end it nearly became serious as they all drew their weapons; but somehow, it settled down.

'So…' Kouyou breathed heavily. He still was fuming from the dispute. 'What's the conclusion of all this?'

'Che. Do as you like.' Zakuro spitted then sneered at the swordsman. 'Isn't the shark the most involved in this little problem?'

'It isn't a "little" problem, and this problem is ours.' Giotto said angrily.

'But, how are we supposed to do?' Dino asked. 'We don't even know their motivation…'

Kouyou leered. 'Well, well, Giotto. This is only half wrong. The one who had been defeated isn't me, nor you, nor anyone else in this room than Squalo. I propose him to come to a solution, whatever he would like.'

The reunion was adjourned with that conclusion.

* * *

Cavalieri: horesmen

Marescialli: Marshal

Trippe del Papa: Guts of the pope

* * *

Now more than ever I need you to review! Please, check out whatever mistake you may find, incoherence or even something you don't like as maybe I wasn't planning on keeping it in. I need constructive criticisms to improve my writing, thus I'll be able to give you better things!


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